


Nothing Gory Means No Glory (but baby please don't bore me)

by LiviKate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Getting Together, Hurt Stiles, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Monster of the Week, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Succubi & Incubi, of the consensual variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:06:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiviKate/pseuds/LiviKate
Summary: “I don’t like them touching you,” he rumbled. “I don’t want anyone else touching you.” He leaned forward, and Stiles’ eyes went wide, thinking for one crazy second that the wolf might be leaning in for a kiss. He stood, frozen in place as Derek pressed in close, chest to chest, dragging his nose and then his stubbly cheek against the corner of Stiles’ slack, shocked mouth, down over his jaw and then to his neck. Stiles recognized it as scenting, but damn did it feel like so much more.OrStiles puts himself in the way of a succubus, gets munched on, Derek talks about his feelings, and then they find true love. Not strictly in that order.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Further information about the Rape/Non-con Elements tag in the end notes, contains explicit spoilers, but is there to keep us all happy and safe.
> 
> Endless thanks for the beta and help titling from one of my first friends in the fandom, cloudyskiesandcurlyfries
> 
> Title from Watsky's song Sloppy Seconds

“For the record, this is the dumbest idea any of you have ever had.”

Stiles sighed from his perch on the barstool, unsticking his elbow from the dirty tabletop to swipe a hand over his face, not entirely sure he disagreed, but offended nonetheless.

“Not like we have any other choice,” was Scott’s placating response, which didn’t actually do that much to reassure Stiles.

“Yeah, but Stilinski?” Jackson continued. “I thought we were trying to _attract_ the succubus.” Stiles was one more snide syllable away from snatching the ear piece out and dropping it into the bowl of peanuts beside him. No one would ever even notice.

“I don’t like this,” Derek grumbled for probably the twentieth time since they came up with idea. He really hated it, had voted resolutely against it, but was outnumbered by the pack. Which Stiles’ saw as a great display of character growth since he didn’t even try to pull the “I’m the Alpha” card. Instead he listened to his pack. And went along with a _terrible_ idea.

“I don’t like this at all,” he said again and Stiles still couldn’t seem to help the slight shiver that rolled down his spine. Every time he spoke, Stiles could almost imagine he was right there with him. Having his voice float directly into Stiles’ ear was as close to intimate as he knew he’d ever be with the man.

“It’s also the only plan we’ve got,” was all Isaac had to add and Stiles could hear the indifferent shrug that undoubtedly accompanied it.

“We’ve been here for forty minutes, though, are you sure it’ll work?” Erica asked, and Stiles shared her sentiments. Not that he didn’t love being bait, he did, like, more than life, but he would admit that he wasn’t the first pick for attracting a sex demon. Sure, he understood that one of the wolves couldn’t do it. And the demon had been draining male victims only, for the few weeks it’d been in Beacon Hills, so Allison and Lydia were out, even though they were definitely much more effective bait. Lydia had complained over the group call that she and Erica had already been hit on by more people than Stiles had ever met in his life from their table at the café across the street.

“I hate this plan,” Stiles grumbled into his beer.

To be fair, it had been Stiles’ idea. Plant a pack member in the bar they thought the succubus was most likely to strike in, get a group call going through the snazzy little ear pieces Danny had donated in return for being left the fuck alone, and wait for the succubus to take a bite. Unfortunately, Deaton, in his infinite wisdom, informed them that a sex demon would not try to feed off a werewolf, leaving Stiles to be the bait in his very own plan.

Which, as Derek and Jackson had been so eager to point out, was not a super great plan. But boys were falling into comas and as the resident supernaturally-aware taskforce, it was up to them to stop it.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t going well. He’d gotten hit on, sure, but mostly by old bikers, looking for a “pretty young thang to take on a ride.” Not exactly the succubus type. And definitely not Stiles’ type. Although the cute bartender had started to give him commiserating looks, smiling like she knew exactly what he was dealing with. Deaton had given Stiles an herbal paste to put on his hands that was supposed to heat up after coming into contact with demonic energy. Which basically translated to “Stiles’ rub this dirt-lotion onto your hands and when you touch a sex demon they’ll start to burn.” It was like something out of Puritan Sex Ed.

One sweaty handshake, or more often than not it was Stiles removing unwelcome hands, was enough to prove that no one he’d touched yet was the succubus they were looking for. The succubus who had showed up two weeks ago and had since left three men in comas. So the pressure was on, and it wasn’t going well.

Stiles drained the rest of his beer and surreptitiously whispered into his phone while he wiped his mouth that he needed the bathroom break. Pressing the mute button on his phone and turning off the connection to the piece in his ear, Stiles’ relished in the silence. Having half the pack in his head for an hour was way too much, especially if he was limited to only three beers.

He ambled his was to the restroom, glancing casually into reflective surfaces to make sure he wasn’t followed by any of his previous suitors. Coast looked clear. Pushing open the doors, he found the bathroom to be empty, if not exactly clean. Not that he expected much from a hole-in-the-wall dive like this. Honestly, if he were a sex demon, he would choose much higher quality bars to snag his food from.

Just as he was finishing up, the door swung open and Stiles’ didn’t have to turn his head to recognize the shape of Derek’s shoulders filling up the doorway. He’d recognize Derek anywhere, knew every part of him. Could pick him out in a crowd by nothing but a glimpse of his elbow.

When Stiles loved, he loved hard. No one could obsess like a Stilinski.

One look at Derek’s angry-brows reminded Stiles to keep those kinds of thoughts buried deep.

“Ready for another mind-numbing hour of getting hit on by old men?” Stiles asked, his voice chipper as he zipped.

“We’re not here for the old men,” Derek answered, boring as ever, flicking the lock on the door so they could talk in private. “We’re here for the succubus.”

“I’ll admit it, this isn’t my best plan,” Stiles said begrudgingly, washing his hands in the sink, watching Derek in the mirror as the wolf stalked in close behind him.

“I hate this plan,” Derek growled, standing close enough to Stiles’ back that he could feel the heat radiating from him.

“So you’ve said,” Stiles rolled his eyes, hands braced against the counter. “Do you have any helpful remarks?”

Derek looked away, not meeting his gaze in the mirror, instead looking down between them. He grumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” Stiles asked, turning around in the tight space between them. “C’mon man, I’m open to suggestions. The comment box is empty and we are eager for your input.” He was being a sarcastic little shit, but he was tired. Tired of being bad-touched by bikers and not even looked twice at by any of the pretty people who walked in the door. He sighed. “No one likes this plan, but it’s the best we got.”

Derek looked up at that, eyes intense as took another step toward the human.

“I _hate_ this plan,” he said again, voice dark, hands clenching at his sides. “I don’t like you being out there, _bait_ , waiting for something to come up and grab you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like it either,” Stiles hedged, surprised by the intensity of Derek’s reaction.

“You don’t understand,” Derek growled, pushing farther into Stiles’ space, pinning him against the countertop. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat.

“Fill me in then,” he said, trying for casual and unaffected, pretending no one heard his voice crack in his throat.

“Knowing you’re out there, hearing people hit on you,” Derek said, voice low, chest rumbling so close to Stiles’ they brushed on simultaneous inhales.

“Not well,” Stiles laughed nervously, not sure where to look with Derek’s face so close to his. The next growl left Derek’s mouth and Stiles felt it brush over the skin of his cheek.

“I don’t like them touching you,” he rumbled. “I don’t want anyone else touching you.” He leaned forward, and Stiles’ eyes went wide, thinking for one crazy second that the wolf might be leaning in for a kiss. He stood, frozen in place as Derek pressed in close, chest to chest, dragging his nose and then his stubbly cheek against the corner of Stiles’ slack, shocked mouth, down over his jaw and then to his neck. Stiles recognized it as scenting, but damn did it feel like so much more.

“Mine,” Derek mumbled against the collar of his shirt.

“Yours,” Stiles breathed, the admission effortless as it rolled off his tongue, so honest. Derek shuddered, pressing his face roughly into Stiles’ neck. Scenting him, Stiles reminded himself. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and pretended it didn’t hurt when he said “You’re my alpha, I’m your pack.”

Derek’s head jerked up, his face so close to Stiles’ he had trouble meeting his gaze.

“If that’s all you want.” It was quiet, whispered into the air between them, dusting across the bow of Stiles’ lips. He almost couldn’t believe it, what he was being offered. Derek looked at him with guarded eyes, pretending as if he hadn’t stepped directly into the no-man’s-land that existed between them and given voice to everything Stiles had ever wanted to hear.

It took less than a second for Stiles to slam his mouth down against Derek’s, a crash of noses and teeth and _finally_. It took less than another second for Derek’s hands to curl into his hair and tilt his head to fit perfectly against him. Stiles groaned into his mouth, hands coming up to press against the hot expanse of his back. His whole body was alight with the kiss, his palms sweating where they gripped at his shirt, one sliding up underneath against the skin, the other sinking down to grab his ass.

Derek kissed like he wanted to hurt Stiles, like he could press his whole way into him. It wasn’t anything like Stiles imagined it would be, it was a lot harder and fiercer, something Stiles had come to learn Derek was very far from. It was good though, it was still Derek, and Stiles was swept up by the force of his mouth on his. Derek drug his lips away to latch to the pale expanse of neck before him, which Stiles helpfully arched as their hips ground together. Derek moaned happily into the skin behind his ear and Stiles needed to catch his breath.

“Derek,” he gasped, hands burning where they pressed against the wolf’s hot skin. “Derek, wait.”

“Hmm?” he hummed against the throbbing mark he was biting into the curve of his shoulder, one hand pulling his shirt aside, the other cupping Stiles through his jeans.

“I’m all in, for this,” Stiles confessed breathlessly to the ceiling. “If this is just _this_ for you” Stiles throat clicked as he swallowed down that possibility. “This is more, for me.” Derek rested his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder, his hair tickling the reddened, sensitive skin he’d left behind. Palms to chest, Stiles’ pushed him away enough to look into his eyes, ignoring the burning need in his skin, hands itching where they touched that firm chest.

Stiles took a deep breath and licked his lips. Derek followed the motion.

“If we do this, I can’t go back. I love you” Stiles exhaled, barely more than a whisper. “I love you,” he said it again, just to let it out, emboldened by the hungry heat Derek wore, gasping desperately against his lips. “So yeah,” he said, face red with confession and arousal, hands sweating where they clenched in Derek’s shirt.

Derek responded by surging against him in a hungry, graceful repetition of their first kiss, hard and full of words left unspoken. Stiles opened against him, letting him lead the kiss, reading his answer in the press of his lips.

A big hand squeezed around his hard cock, straining against the zipper. Stiles’ dick twitched in his palm at the sound of Derek growling his name, while he dug blunt, human teeth into his bottom lip.

“I love you,” Derek pressed against his skin, squeezing almost painfully hard around Stiles’ cock. “I love you too,” his voice sounded strange and strained; Stiles figured it was probably the first time he’d said those words in years.

“Fuck, Derek, yes,” Stiles groaned, pushing up into his hand. His own fingers wound through Derek’s hair, the gel-sticky strands cooling the burning of his skin as he gasped into his mouth.

“So good,” Derek said, breathing heavy, his own hips hitching against Stiles’ thigh. “You’re so good, you feel so good.”

“You too,” Stiles said dumbly, sex-drunk and shockingly close. He clung to Derek’s shoulders, one arm thrown around his neck, dragging their mouths back together, the other hand digging into the meat of his arm as it flexed, stroking him through his jeans. Stiles was lightheaded, vision going wobbly as his orgasm approached, embarrassingly quickly, like he couldn’t help it, like it was being pulled out of him. His hands were hot and clammy as they started to lose their grip. Derek buried his face into his throat, taking another mouthful of flesh and biting down hard. Stiles’ jerked against him, wincing at the pain but groaning as he felt his orgasm rushing down his spine.

He wanted to tell Derek it hurt, to lighten up, but he couldn’t seem to form the words, couldn’t put together the sentence. He tried to push him away, the pain getting sharper, but his arms were useless, dangling, like he was moving underwater. Even as the pain outweighed the pleasure, even as he felt his skin split, it was as if nothing could stop the orgasm building in him, too fast and feeling out of control. He tried to tell him to stop but he couldn’t.

“Come for me,” Derek ordered, and Stiles did, knees going weak as he shot into his boxers, Derek’s hand rubbing against him, teeth brutalizing the skin of his throat.

Stiles slumped back against the counter, his ass perched on the edge, held up by the press of Derek’s body against him. He was still muttering nonsense into his skin, hand stroking him despite his efforts to twitch away, oversensitive.

“Yes, boy, good boy,” Derek said, sounding breathless. “You taste so good. So sweet, I’m keeping you.”

Stiles lifted his head, his brain still buzzing and his hands sending zings of heat up his arms. His vision was a little blurry, like he’d forgotten to breathe when he came, but he was able to focus on Derek’s eyes.

Eyes that were glowing bright purple under the fluorescent lights.

Stiles jerked back, pressing a burning palm against the cool countertop. He watched in hazy confusion as Derek grinned, every tooth tiny and sharp, gleaming in his mouth, eyes purple, pupil gone.

“Fuck,” Stiles said, scrambling, uncoordinated and energy drained, in a panicked, futile attempt to push the demon away.

The demon just laughed, digging its fingers into his hips, fingers that grew claws. Claws that were long and thin like needles, stabbing easily through his jeans into his skin. Stiles started to scream, but the demon cut him off with a sharp kiss, cutting his lips on its teeth.

“Mine,” it hissed, no longer using Derek’s voice, holding tight as Stiles squirmed. “Mine, now, boy.” It latched back onto his neck in a bite that was pure, bright pain and this time Stiles could feel the energy start to drain from his body. Focusing on the burning of the herbs on his palms, he fought the pull, arms flailing. He managed to fist one hand in the back of the demon’s shirt and yanked hard, its teeth scraping as its mouth separated from his skin. Stiles planted a hard kick to its knee, causing it to stumble far enough away that Stiles could get to his phone in his pocket before it was back on him, reaching for it with Derek’s hands, looking panicked for the first time, as if it knew a pack of wolves was sitting just on the other side. Stiles smashed his thumb against the unmute button, croaking out a cry for help, and the sound of angry, confused werewolves calling his name filled the bathroom.

Stiles grinned, bloody-mouthed and exhausted, as the succubus heard the real Derek shouting orders.

“The wolves are coming,” Stiles said, spitting blood at the demon as it shrieked in anger, losing its glamour completely, revealing a bony body with shadows falling off it like rags. It spun around fast, tearing the lock from the doorframe as it yanked the bathroom door open, racing out into the bar. Stiles went stumbling after the thing, knowing the pack would be coming, would follow him after it. He rushed out, woozy but still on his feet, following the succubus as it fled out the back door into the alley behind the bar. He wasn’t gaining ground but the demon was still in sight as they neared the mouth of the alley. Stiles almost made it out to the parking lot before a wave of vertigo hit and he went stumbling to his knees on the pavement.

“Fuck,” he cursed again, droplet of blood from his bitten lip landing against the back of his hands. His palms pressed against the cold, wet ground with great relief, still burning hotly. Stiles had just made it back to his feet when his fuzzy field of vision was suddenly filled with Scott’s concerned face.

“Stiles, hey, buddy, you okay?” he asked dumbly, looking young and scared. Stiles nodded, his head a little too loose on his neck to be convincing, pointing with one hand where the demon had fled.

“Isaac, Erica, go,” he ordered to the other wolves hovering around him, spitting more blood out. “It went that way, towards the cars, track my blood.” Erica and Isaac took off, shooting worried looks over their shoulders, but obeying Stiles as the second in command.

“Dude, what happened to you? Why didn’t you call for help?” Scott asked, doing the lion’s share of keeping his friend on his feet. His chest hurt from fighting for air but his vision was starting to clear as he took a couple, blood-tinged breaths.

Before he could answer, Derek, the real Derek, came pounding down the alleyway, Boyd close behind him. He looked furious, eyes burning bright red as he stopped in front of Stiles.

“What the fuck, Stiles?” he shouted, hands brusque as they grabbed his shoulders, shaking him, Scotts worried protest ignored.

“It followed me into the bathroom,” Stiles explained, head clearing as the adrenaline started to fade and he took a couple deep, cool breaths. Derek inhaled, too, nostrils flaring as he scented Stiles. His eye’s widened in shock, glancing down towards Stiles’ groin, smelling the come on him. When he looked back up to his face, his eyes darkened with anger.

“So you fucked it?” he shouted, hands bruisingly tight on his shoulders, one thumb pressing down on one of the aching bites the demon had left. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

His hot breath cooled the blood leaking from the side of his neck, just like the demon that he worn his face had cooled its spit on his skin, and Stiles shivered.

“I didn’t know,” he defended weakly, feeling ungrounded not from the physical attack, but from the emotional. The whiplash from telling Derek he loved him to _this_ , to having him shouting and angry and _real,_ right in his face, sent him reeling. His boxers clung to him unpleasantly, making the memory Derek’s body against his impossible to forget.

“You didn’t know?” Derek growled, furious. “We were here looking for a sex demon, and you didn’t think twice before fucking a stranger in a bathroom stall?!”

“It wasn’t a stranger,” Stiles shouted back, a fire starting in the empty, hollow place in his chest. “It wasn’t a stranger. We got it wrong, okay. The Bestiary must’ve missed something, this thing had some sort of… psychic ability.” His head spun as he put together the pieces. Derek hadn’t dropped his hands from Stiles’ shoulders. He shrugged them off, taking a shaky step back as the pieces clicked together.

“A psychic link, or something. It got in my head. It knew exactly who I wanted it to be,” he confessed, voice hollow with shock. “It looked exactly like who I wanted to see, it said everything I wanted them to say, and it said it exactly like that person would’ve.” Stiles wiped at his face, smearing blood and sweat onto his sleeve, words stuttering in his throat as it hit him. _None of it was real._

“You still should’ve known. How could you be so stupid?” Derek spat at him, body tense with fury.

And how could he have been? Thinking Derek would rush in, tell him he loved him and wanted him forever. Thinking Derek returned his feelings in all the ridiculous ways he never let himself hope for. Of course it wasn’t Derek. It was a demon, preying on his pathetic fantasies. And it worked.

Stiles’ next exhale shuddered out of him, his whole body cold except his still burning palms, throat, and his stomach as it churned hotly in shame. He felt sick, suddenly, and as weak as he had with the demon still on him.

“I thought it was real,” he whispered, sounding about as broken as he felt. Scott shoved Derek away, replacing all that cold anger with warm concern, pulling him in, gentle hands prodding at his neck. “I thought it was real,” he said again, eyes burning as he watched Derek over Scott’s shoulder, shaking his head with disappointment. Stiles whimpered and Scott pulled him into a fierce hug, sad sympathy pouring out of him, letting his friend cry quietly against his shoulder.

 

 

Stiles stayed like that, clinging to his friend, heartbroken and filled with shame, as the wolves moved around him. Isaac and Erica came back empty handed, whining in the back of their throats when Stiles wouldn’t respond to their words or brushes. Derek chased them away, telling them to go meet Allison and Lydia where they were waiting with the cars at the extraction points they’d determined beforehand. Stiles heard him toss the keys to the Camaro to Boyd and Jackson, saying they’d all meet back up at Deaton’s.

“C’mon,” he said gruffly, herding Scott and Stiles towards the parking lot. Stiles followed numbly, breaking apart from Scott to walk. He was a little unsteady from the shock and the sharp pain from the cuts in his hips. When they reached the Jeep, Stiles just let his forehead thump against the driver’s side window. Derek huffed, reaching around him into the front pocket of his jeans, flinching when he felt the cold sliminess of come and blood dampening the inside of his pants. He grabbed the keys fast, jerking his hand out, causing Stiles to hiss in pain as the material pulled against the claw marks. Derek murmured a quiet, contrite apology and Stiles just shook his head slowly, eyes far away, focusing on nothing, unable to process. Derek unlocked the car, and Scott bundled him into the backseat, sitting close against his side, offering his warmth and care. Stiles felt blood slide sluggishly across the skin of his hips, having saturated the fabric, and beading from his throat with every beat of his damaged heart. Derek climbed silently into the drivers seat and no one said anything on the ride to the clinic.

The heavy weight of heartbreak settled in his chest, feeling like a suitcase by the door of a once happy home. It filled his chest like it had always meant to sit there. Stiles wondered if maybe it had. Loving Lydia had never felt like this. This was like stepping into a surprise party that wasn’t for you. Like the worst April Fool’s joke, like getting the rug pulled right out from under him and then being smothered by it, buried in it. His ribs hurt with the weight of it all.

He took a deep breath and his lungs expanded around the ache, making room for it in his chest. Stiles exhaled hard, hoping maybe he could push the pain out with it. It didn’t budge. It seemed like heartache was something that would be here to stay.

Even worse was the shame. The guilt. The worthlessness he felt, creeping up like bile in his already aching throat. His shoulders hunched in and he couldn’t stop thinking how stupid, how pathetic he’d been. How easily he’d been preyed upon, how easily he’d been _used_. Rubbed off in a bathroom like a cheap whore, he felt like he’d drown under the filth of it all.

He rested his forehead on Scott’s shoulder and let himself cry quietly.

The girls and Isaac had already arrived, sitting in the waiting room with Deaton, unable to answer any of his questions. Derek pushed the door open and Deaton turned to the new arrivals.

“I see the succubus hunting didn’t go well,” he asked, his face calmly blank until Scott ushered Stiles into the building. Once the vet caught sight of the pale, bloodied boy, his face morphed into alarm. “Oh no,” he said, immediately directing them into the examination room. “Sit, Stiles,” he said gently, helping Scott help Stiles up onto the table.

“What happened?” Lydia asked, the rest of the pack pushing with her into the back room.

“Turns out succubae are psychic,” Stiles said blandly, trying for a smile but it just felt ugly on his tearstained cheeks. “It picks out who you want to see and makes itself look like that.”

“So, that’s why you smell like…” Isaac trailed off, indicating Stiles’ groin with an awkward hand.

“Yeah,” he said, voice clotted with feeling. Allison and Lydia looked shocked and horrified in equal measure, whereas Deaton just looked cautious, approaching him like he was a volatile animal.

“So the demon appeared to you as someone you know, and initiated sex with you as that person,” Deaton prompted.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Talked the same, sounded the same. It even smelled right.” He huffed a miserable laugh, rubbing one hand over his face. “It was very convincing. I should’ve known better.” His skin crawled with shame, at having fallen for it, at everyone knowing about it, at the memory of Derek yelling at him, calling him stupid.

“Stiles, did it bite you?” Deaton asked, running a wet paper towel over the blood on Stiles’ chin. Stiles grunted in the affirmative, one hand pulling the collar of his shirt to the side, exposing the several bruising bites and hickeys along the pale curve of his throat and shoulder, along with the thin scrapes and rings of punctures from the demon’s teeth. He also gestured to the cuts in his mouth, both lips split from the creature’s teeth.

The room rumbled with the subvocal growl Derek produced, eyes glowing red at the sight of another creature’s bite sitting on his pack member’s neck. Stiles tried not to think about how it was actually in the shape of Derek’s mouth.

“Were these…” Deaton trailed off, looking for the political phrasing while he wiped blood from his skin. “Consensual?”

“No,” Stiles whispered, eyes closing tightly with shame, thinking back to wanting to say something, to ask him to stop, but not being able to force the words out. He remembered the demon digging in with its sharp, tiny teeth, sucking hard at his skin and energy, feeling those pinprick teeth break into his skin. “I tried to get away, before I knew. It was just too rough, not what I wanted,” he shook his head, shame clotting in his throat. “But then it bit me and it was like I couldn’t stop it.” Scott and Erica made noises of distress, harmonizing with Derek’s continued growl, picking up in anger. “It felt like it was pulling it out of me, I didn’t want it anymore but it kept happening.” His cheeks were wet again and he felt like he should stop talking, stop sharing this, keep it too himself. But the thoughts kept running through his head, over and over.

He couldn’t believe he ever thought it was real. He dropped his head into his hands as waves and waves of shame and anger and hatred swamped him. He felt it rising up in him, choking him with the strength of it and it felt just like the creature was still latched to his neck, feeding on him.

“Stupid, stupid,” Stiles bit out, teeth digging into his bloodied lip, pulling hard at his own hair.

“Whoa, Stiles, stop, it’s okay now,” he heard Scott say, but it was hard to make sense of the words over the pounding of his own heartbeat.

“No, I’m stupid, I let it happen, I deserved it,” he said, feeling like his control over himself was slipping away, slipping into panic. “I’m stupid, ugly. He told me he loved me,” Stiles gasped, feeling panic and loathing clawing up his throat. He looked up, eyes blurry with tears, unable to focus on the wide-eyed disbelief of his pack, the frightened concern on their faces. Instead, his gaze fell on Derek, locking onto his face, imagining those purple glowing eyes. “He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love me. Of course he doesn’t love me, I’m pathetic. Ugly. He wouldn’t want me. _Stupid. Worthless._ He’ll never _love me!”_ His chest grew tighter and tighter and he felt the grime on his skin as clearly as he felt it marring his soul, making him ugly inside and out.

“Stiles, stop!” Scott yelled, grabbing at his arms, holding his hands down against the table. Stiles looked down to see angry red scratch marks on his arms and blood under his own fingernails. The sight shocked his system and he looked at Deaton desperately.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said, terrified.

Deaton was already moving, pulling things out of cabinets, giving directions to Isaac to collect different ingredients as he explained.

“Succubi have venom they can choose inject if their target begins to struggle,” he said, pouring out some acidic smelling brown oil into a larger beaker and diluting it with water. “It reacts within the victim, attacking the emotional centers of the brain. It results in depression, shame and extremely low self-worth. It’s supposed to ensure that if the victim escapes, he or she won’t tell anyone of their attack. Evolutionarily, it’s a marvel.” Isaac handed him a bunch of ingredients and they got stirred into the mixture. Stiles was started to shake again, hot tears rolling from his eyes, feeling the demon’s breath on his skin again, bite marks in the shape of Derek’s mouth throbbing on his neck.

“I bet his alpha calling him a stupid slut helped a lot, too,” Scott spat out angrily, and Derek’s shoulders slumped guiltily.

“Stiles is experiencing a severe episode, likely exacerbated by the emotional manipulation and sexual assault,” Deaton continued, his demeanor much more frenzied than typical, stirring the brown liquid in its container. “This will neutralize the toxins in his blood, but it won’t be pleasant.” Stiles watched with wide eyes as the concoction started smoking as the herbs dissolved.

“Lie down,” Deaton said firmly, though Stiles could barely comprehend his words. He was babbling, he thought. He could feel his mouth moving, but wasn’t sure he was making sense. He couldn’t stop thinking about those eyes, glowing purple as teeth broke into his skin, the words “ _worthless, ugly, pathetic_ ” running on a loop through his clouded thoughts.

“Scott, hold his shoulders,” the vet directed, voice hard and Scott pulled him down onto his back. Stiles’ hips twinged in pain as he shifted, whimpering when Deaton turned his head so the damaged side of his neck was stretched out. Stiles felt Isaac’s hands close over his knees, holding his legs down. He thought Lydia might be crying. Last glimpse he caught of Derek’s face was one of horror. “This will hurt,” Deaton warned again before pouring the mixture in a slow stream across the skin of his neck.

He screamed. He screamed and he thrashed and he cried. He felt the potion reaching into his skin. It burned and steamed when it filled the puncture wounds and Stiles could feel it chasing up his veins, arteries, nerves, covering the inside of him. He felt it sliding through him, felt that telltale sizzle of magic as it coursed through his body quicker than blood does, burning out every impurity with a white hot flame.

When the worst of it was over, after uncountable moments of searing pain, his body tingled with that too-clean feeling, like when you leave a dentist appointment or get bleach on your skin.

Stiles lay on his back, resting in the quiet control of his own mind, thoughts quiet, breath heavy. He was exhausted, every nerve in his body zinging. His fingers cramped as he tried to relax them out of clenched fists.

“Better?” Deaton asked, and Stiles opened his eyes, not knowing when they’d squeezed shut. He saw Deaton looking down at him, a washcloth in his hand, dabbing at his skin. Scott was sweaty and breathing hard by his shoulders, black lines disappearing across the back of his hand. Isaac was hunched over his legs, arms shaking as he, too, absorbed Stiles’ pain.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, feeling cleaned out and so much lighter, though his voice was rough from screaming. His skin wasn’t crawling, his neck didn’t ache and his stomach was calm. More importantly, he had control of his thoughts again, his head was his own again. It was a feeling he cherished. He took another deep, centering breath, reestablishing his center of gravity. “Yeah, that’s a lot better.”

Deaton hummed approvingly and Scott stumbled away to take a seat, seeming shaken. Stiles watched him, still laying on his back on the cool table. Allison took a sure step forward, wrapping a hand around Isaac’s trembling arm and helping him straighten up. He looked shell shocked.

“You guys shouldn’t have done that,” Stiles said.

“You screamed, I had too,” Scott said, tested and true.

“I couldn’t even tell you were taking any, you just hurt yourself.”

“I wasn’t just going to sit there and do nothing,” Scott argued, eyes wide and broken, sympathetic to a fault.

“Here,” Deaton said, handing Stiles the last of the potion. “For the cuts in your mouth, just in case.” Stiles shrugged his shoulders, pleased to find that the motion barely hurt, and dumped the last bit into his mouth, swishing around, eyes squeezed shut against the tingling pain. He slapped away Isaac’s hand, not needing to hurt anyone else. After a few moments, when the worst of the burning subsided, he spit back into the beaker, sucking in a grateful breath.

“Thanks,” he said, handing back the glass and pushing up to a seated position. He winced as the claw marks under his waistband shifted, now the only bright spots of pain. “Wow,” he said simply, looking up at the rest of the pack. Boyd had arrived and was standing in the doorway looking terrified, with Erica’s face pressed into his chest, a broad palm cupping her shaking shoulder. Lydia, too, looked damp-eyed and scared, digging her nails into a stunned Jackson’s arm. The pack was radiating fear and discomfort, Stiles didn’t have to be a wolf to feel that.

“Sorry, I know that was probably really scary for you guys,” Stiles said, rubbing a palm over the red, raised scratches on his own arms. “But it’s okay,” he tried out a smile, one that didn’t feel as dead on his face as the last one. “I feel a lot better now. I started to lose it a little there, but it’s okay now, I’m me again.”

Lydia gave him what usually amounted to an unimpressed look, but her face was colored a little too heavily with relief for her to pull it off. Instead, she stepped up to his seat on the table, grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. Stiles squeezed back reassuringly before Lydia pulled a small manicure kit from her purse and started carefully cleaning his own blood out from under his nails.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” she said, her voice harsh, the edge of anxiety tempering it even as she hissed it at him.

“It’s okay,” he said, thinking it might just be true as he cupped the back of her head with his other hand, pressing a hint of a kiss to her forehead, aware of his broken and bleeding lips. He didn’t feel good, per say, but he felt better than he had five minutes ago. Boyd and Erica were twitching in the doorway, like they really wanted to gather in close. Stiles beckoned them over before holding out an arm for Scott, Allison, Jackson and Isaac, too.

“C’mon, everyone pile in, you know you want to,” he said, eager to settle the tension in the room, knowing the feeling of pack will help heal the trauma of the night.

The pack nuzzled in close around him, all the wolves rubbing against his skin somewhere, whining gently at having their second injured, watching him lose his mind. Allison had the presence of mind to help clean him up a little, wiping at the blood and herb patina on his neck and face before helping him out of his soaked shirt, elbowing more than a few affectionate werewolves in the process, while Lydia continued to work on his nails. Derek stayed out of it, and normally that would’ve made Stiles sad, seeing Derek always on the outskirts of moments like these, but this time he was selfishly glad for it.

He didn’t think he could stand to have those hands on him again. Even if they were the real thing, not the lie that had hurt him, he didn’t know if he could handle that without giving anything away.

Now that the manufactured guilt and shame and self-loathing had been burned out, Stiles didn’t feel like such a victim. He felt angry, and violated, but not defeated, and he knew he would find a way to end that demon. The only real pain left sitting in his chest was the dashed hope. He’d been so happy for a few seconds, everything had been perfect. And now he was returned, abruptly and unpleasantly, into the real world in which he would never feel like that again.

It was a lot to swallow. But instead of feeling as though his ribs were stretched tight over an empty suitcase, now he just felt bruised. Like there was a tiny ache in his heart, that he felt with every beat, constant but manageable. It hurt, but he’d survive.

Speaking of, more than a few things still hurt.

When Isaac came back in for a desperate and enthusiastic cuddle, his arm wrapped around Stiles waist, dragging his jeans against the cuts on his hips causing him to hiss out an injured breath.

Within the next heartbeat, Derek was across the room, flush with the pack where they circled Stiles, and carefully pulling the young wolf away.

“He’s still hurt,” Derek said gruffly. He went to pass a quick hand down Stiles’ arm, and Stiles flinched away. It hadn’t been a choice, it’d been an instinct, a knee-jerk reaction to keep what little of him was left safe from the hands he now knew could hurt him the most. Nonetheless, the hurt look on Derek’s face made the little ache in his heart throb a little harder on the next beat. Jackson felt the flinch and stepped in between them, looking uncertainly between his alpha and his second.

“Perhaps it would be better if there were fewer people in the room?” Deaton suggested as he surveyed the rest of the damage on the human boy. Derek nodded briskly at the vet, clearing the pack, save for Scott, from the room with a hard jerk of his head, closing the door behind them and standing in front of it to block the window. Deaton looked at Stiles, to check if that was okay, and Stiles nodded tiredly. Asking Derek to leave would take too much energy, he always insists on staying whenever any member of the pack is getting patched up back here. It was just incidental that that was usually Stiles.

Scott, though, was ready to hold a grudge; perhaps seeing the way Stiles’ had reacted to the alpha’s touch.

“You should go,” Scott said, hand firm on Stiles’ uninjured shoulder.

“He’s my pack,” Derek said lowly, shoulders hunched up and arms crossed over his chest. “I stay.”

“We don’t need anymore of your victim-blaming bullshit,” Scott shot back. Deaton looked up at that, shooting Derek a disappointed look, causing his shoulders to crawl further up to his ears.

“It’s fine,” Stiles said, not wanting them to blame Derek any further. He already looked like a kicked puppy. “My hands are still really hot,” he complained to the vet.

Deaton nodded, mostly to himself, as he snapped on gloves and moved to the cabinet Stiles was starting to understand was the special Wolfie and Related Nasty Stuff cabinet. He pulled out a bottle and wetted a cloth with its contents before passing it to Scott.

“The heat didn’t tell you something was wrong?” he asked, in a carefully nonjudgmental voice.

Stiles shook his head.

“By then, it was already, you know, on me, I guess,” he trailed off, not needing to explain how sex demons work.

“You trusted it,” Scott said kindly, forgivingly, wiping each of Stiles’ palms with the damp cloth. Stiles’ sighed at the instant relief. He wished there was something like that for the hole he felt in his heart.

“Did it claw you?” Deaton asked after poking and prodding at the punctures in his neck and shoulder, deeming them clean.

Stiles nodded, gesturing to the blood darkening the torn waist of his jeans.

“Ah,” Deaton said. “If you would take off your pants, Mr. Stilinski, I could get a better look.”

Stiles blushed to the roots of his hair, feeling the cold come sticking against his skin, imagining the wet stain they would all see.

“Um,” he said, eyes darting from Scott’s earnest ‘I’ve definitely seen your dick before’ expression to Derek’s seriously intense gaze, getting stuck there, just looking at him.

“Of course,” Deaton said, carefully professional. “I’m afraid the two of you will have to join the rest of your pack outside,” he said to Scott and Derek, gesturing towards the door. Scott and Stiles had a quick silent conversation before he gave his friend a parting shoulder squeeze and left quietly, Derek following him out after shooting Stiles an oddly intense look, and giving Deaton a vaguely threatening glare.

Deaton gestured for Stiles to remove his jeans before turning back to the sink, offering the boy privacy while he wet another towel under the tap. When Stiles’ successfully kicked out of his torn and bloody jeans with minimal wincing and hissing, the vet passed the towel to him, pointedly not looking below his shoulders before turning away again. Stiles pulled free his sticky underwear, sliding it under his jeans and out of view, before wiping himself clean, trying not to flinch at the cold clinging to his skin. With the balled up towel protecting his modesty, he grunted his permission for Deaton to return to his examination.

The marks on his hips were deep; long, thin tears that slid forward to his hipbones. Deaton tutted over them concernedly, remarking that Stiles should be in a great deal of pain. Stiles simply shrugged. This physical pain was nothing compared to what that venom had done to him. And it was a distraction from the lingering heartache left behind, probably to stay.

“Perhaps you would like one of your friends back in here,” Deaton suggested. “To drain the pain?” Stiles considered it before shaking his head, leaning back on the table, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’d rather feel it.”

The vet was gentle and professional, a calming presence for once in their relationship. Normally Stiles found him frustrating, never giving the answers he wanted to hear. He found his quiet demeanor comforting now, when, for the first time in a long time, Stiles wasn’t very interested in talking.

“This will sting,” he warned, before flushing the gouges in his hips with a saline solution. Stiles hissed, curses draining to a whine as the vet pressed against his skin, making sure everything was clean. “Some of these will need a stitch or two.” Stiles just stared at the lights above his head until spots covered his vision, remaining in the negative when he squeezed his eyes shut against the pull of the needle. He made it through several stiches, enough that he lost count, before the vet spoke again.

“The person the succubus pretended to be,” he said, his tone carefully distracted as he worked. “You trusted it while you were undercover. He’s in the pack, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question. Stiles’ felt heat prickle along his cheekbones and behind his eyes. If Deaton could put it together, it’s only a matter of time before the pack did, too.

“We done here?” he asked, the crack in his voice betraying him.

“One more side to go.”

 

 

 

That night, Stiles dreamed of a coffee shop, warm and safe with the smell of sugar and espresso in the air, Derek’s hand in his on the table. Same as he often did, at least once a week, aching dreams of domesticity. This time, though, when Derek smiled up at him from the newspaper in his other hand, his eyes were a sickly purple.

He woke in a cold sweat, the bruises on his neck throbbing with every pulse of his pounding heart. He pushed upright in his bed, sitting back against the headboard and hugging a pillow to his chest. He kept his eyes closed, sipping in careful, measured breaths.

His heart rate was just about normal again when he heard his name whispered from the window.

“Stiles,” Derek said again, slipping silently over the sill. “Are you okay?”

“Why are you here?” Stiles asked, head thumping back against the shelves of his headboard. He dug his fingers into the pillow, curling his legs up, doing everything he could to make himself small, trying to protect himself from the heartache being around Derek was sure to bring now.

“I figured you’d probably have nightmares,” Derek said quietly, leaning against the desk, hands shoved into his pockets. If Stiles had been able to look at him, he would’ve seen that the wolf had his eyes trained on the floor.

“Thoughtful of you,” Stiles said, a little bitter and a lot embarrassed. “So you loomed outside my window to, what? Make me tea?”

“No,” Derek huffed, shoulders hunching defensively, still not looking anywhere but his own boots.

“Then what, Derek? Why are you here?” he asked, tired, so tired. Too tired to analyze Derek’s every move and motivation like he normally would.

“I thought you might have trouble waking up,” Derek said after so much silence Stiles thought he might’ve left. “It used to happen to me,” he continued. Stiles’ breath caught, finally looking at the other man, with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Sleep paralysis, I guess. Or something like that. I used to have nightmares of her, and I wouldn’t be able to wake up from them, to stop her.”

It was probably the most personal thing Derek had ever told him, and Stiles’ heart broke all over. Not in heartache for himself, but in heartache for this man, this man who had been mistreated more than Stiles could imagine. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat as he realized that those horrible feelings of worthlessness and shame and guilt he had felt due to the demon’s venom, the self-hatred that almost drove him mad, Derek had probably lived with those same feelings for years.

“And I wanted to say that I’m sorry,” Derek continued, the skin on the back of his hands bunching and rippling as he tried to make room in his pockets that just did not exist.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said, quietly but quickly, hoping to reassure Derek that it was.

“No, it isn’t,” he said anyway. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you, I should’ve listened to you and worried about you first and the _thing_ second. And I never should’ve blamed you. That was inexcusable. I, more, than anyone, should understand what you went through.”

Stiles was taken aback, never having heard so many words come out of Derek at once, each one sounding more heartfelt and sincere than the last. His eyes itched and buzzed at the rising feelings in his chest, sympathy and love and sadness, all in equal measure.

“And I do understand,” Derek continued, looking briefly at Stiles before clearing his throat and glaring at the wall behind him. “I know what it feels like, what happened to you.”

Stiles swallowed and the noise echoed in the quiet room. Stiles hadn’t really considered how similar it was. Derek had been tricked, been fucked, been promised love just to have it ripped away.

When Stiles didn’t say anything, Derek’s shoulders squared resolutely and he took a deliberate step towards him.

“I don’t blame you. It isn’t your fault, there’s nothing you could’ve done, and I’m sorry I didn’t say that before.” The low light reflected off Derek’s eyes and Stiles could see how earnest he was, how much he meant it. “You’re not stupid,” he finished quietly, hands twitching like maybe they were feeling brave enough to crawl out of his pockets.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, voice rough from sleep and feeling. “That, um, that means a lot.”

Derek smiled, small and hesitant, but it was there. He freed one hand to gesture to the foot of the bed. He waited for Stiles to nod before stepping closer. He settled down, with a good foot of space between them left. It was quiet for a moment longer, awkward and still as Stiles held his breath, waiting for whatever Derek’s next move was.

“Do you want to talk about it?” It was about the last thing Stiles expected to hear.

“Do I want to talk about it?” he repeated dumbly, white-knuckle grip on his pillow going lax in surprise.

“Yeah. It helps.” Derek shrugged.

“Do _you_ want to talk about it?” Stiles asked, unable to believe that Derek Hale was sitting on his bed, encouraging him to emote about their shared trauma. Or even just asking him to speak at all. Normally it was very much the opposite.

“After everything,” Derek stalled for a moment. “That happened to me, I thought I didn’t want to tell anyone.” Stiles could imagine it, young Derek, overcome with feelings of fault and shame, condemning himself to suffer in silence. “But that wasn’t good for me,” Derek continued, saying the words like he’d heard them said to him a thousand times. “And that was hurting Laura. She was worried about me. Eventually, I told her everything. And it got better.”

Derek sat up a little straighter, having slumped a little under the memories, but perhaps feeling a little lighter after sharing them again. He looked at Stiles with the most gentle expression he had ever seen on his face.

“I just want you to be okay,” he said, reaching out very, very slowly, giving Stiles plenty of time to pull his knee away. He didn’t, but he took a deep breath and steeled himself for the touch of Derek’s hand. His tension didn’t go unnoticed. “I’m sorry I made things worse for you today.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” Stiles said, brow furrowing at Derek, concerned that the older man was taking this so hard. The last thing Stiles ever wanted to do was make Derek feel poorly about himself, or add to the guilt Derek wore like a cloud. He had a seven-year plan for teaching Derek to love himself (and Stiles).

“I do,” Derek said, squeezing his knee very gently. “I really didn’t like that plan, and I kept imaging all the ways it could go wrong, and then it did.” Derek looked at him again, almost shyly, out from under his lashes. “I was angry that you’d gotten hurt, that I—we couldn’t keep you safe. I was angry at myself.”

“You were angry at me too,” Stiles grumbled, nudging his knee up into Derek’s hand, letting him know he forgave him anyway.

“Yeah,” he answered softly, removing his hand, and Stiles frowned at the chill he felt. “I was, a little.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, feeling wrong-footed, wishing he knew the right words to say, but so, so grateful that Derek was actually sharing this with him. It was out of character, at least, for the character Derek seemed to like playing. Stiles was finally getting a good look at the kind, soft man he’d caught fleeting glimpses of for so many years.

“It’s okay,” Derek said, looking at his hands, where they folded in his lap. “It’s not your fault that I was—” he trailed off. It hung in the air, thought unfinished, for half a second, before Derek drew in a deep breath through his nose, and continued. “I was jealous. That it got to you.” Stiles’ held his breath. “Because I care about you. A lot.” Stiles’ heart started pounding double time, and his hand inched slowly behind his back. “I didn’t like hearing all those people hitting on you, and I didn’t like smelling that demon all over you.” Stiles hand groped blindly for a moment, before closing on a small tube. “I was jealous that it got to touch you.” Stiles’ grip tightened and he let out a smooth exhale, blowing a stream of air out of his mouth, relaxing his shoulders. “I know that you’re in love with someone, whoever the succubus looked like for you. I think it might be me.” Stiles fought to keep himself relaxed, even as his heart hammered in his chest. “But even if it’s not, I want you to know. That I want you. Like that.”

Stiles took another deep breath, sitting up straighter, leaning in slightly, still silent but for his breath and his pounding heart.

“Say something.” Derek’s face turned towards him, his brows as tense as his shoulders, eyes wide and vulnerable.

Stiles moved fast, arm whipping around to spray him point-blank with his custom wolfsbane and Holy Water concoction. He was on his feet before the thing even screamed, grabbing the sword from under his bed and swinging it expertly, training paying off, as he slipped the blade right under the thing’s chin.

“Shit,” it shouted, hands coming up to cover its eyes, howling in pain. “What the fuck, Stiles?!”

“Drop it,” Stiles said, skin tingling as the magic of the sword connected with his spark, electric blue runes lighting up the blade and twisting up the length of his arm.

“You drop it!” the creature wearing Derek’s face screamed. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Stop pretending,” Stiles replied, voice and hand steady, pushing the blade harder against the thing’s throat. Its hands still covered its streaming eyes. “It didn’t work a second time.”

“Stiles, please,” it said, hands leaving it’s eyes, hanging up in the air in surrender. “It’s me.”

Derek’s eyes glowed Alpha red in the low light, sclera bloodshot from the spray, but bright red irises. There was no sickly purple. Derek’s features didn’t shift into a gaunt mask of bones and shadows. His beta form was just as it always was, claws poking from his fingertips, brows ridged, mouth full of familiar fangs.

It wasn’t the demon.

It was actually Derek this time.

“Fuck,” Stiles said, lowering the sword, sagging where he stood.

Derek growled, pushing to his feet as soon as the blade was clear, shoving past Stiles towards the door, one hand cupped protectively over his burning eyes. A second later, Stiles heard the bathroom door slam shut and the sink start running.

He dropped the sword, arm suddenly feeling heavy. He went through the motions of sealing the rune on the handle, sheathing it under his bed and locking the safety on his defense spray, putting it back in the bookshelf. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, head falling into his hands.

It was Derek this time. It had seemed too good to be true. Just like last time. But this time it was _real_. Derek had really been sitting here, confessing his feelings, leaving himself open and vulnerable to rejection, attack, ridicule. Telling Stiles all the things he’d wanted to hear. And meaning it. It wasn’t a trap, or a lie. It had been real.

Derek loved him. Wanted him, at least, but Stiles suspected that meant the same thing.

And Stiles had maced him and held a sword to his throat.

A hysteric laugh jolted its way out of Stiles’ mouth, elbowing through his teeth and making his face feel wrong. “Fuck,” he cursed to himself.

“Yeah,” Derek agreed, stepping back through the doorway, shirt gone, washcloth in hand, dabbing against his face.

“Sorry,” Stiles said weakly, watching Derek with awe and terror. “I thought—well, you know what I thought.” Derek gave him an unimpressed glare. “You can’t blame me!” Stiles defended. “You came in here, started talking about your _feelings,_ even if there wasn’t a shapeshifting succubus trying to kill me I would’ve worried about body snatchers or something.” Derek chuckled a little still moping at his face with the rag. “It just felt too good to be true. Again,” Stiles confessed. He really couldn’t believe Derek was even still here. He was really afraid he was going to leave. “Don’t go.”

“You want me to stay?” Derek asked, voicing biting with sarcasm, a thick brow quirking at him.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed out, thoughts racing to give his eager heart permission to believe what was happening. “It’s actually you.”

“Yeah,” Derek said again, sitting gingerly down next to the other man.

“You meant everything you said?” Stiles asked, looking at him, eyes devouring his features, from his puffy eyes to his shadowy scruff.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, but could you say it again? I was kind of freaking out the first time. And planning an attack, so I might’ve missed some of it.” Derek huffed a laugh, giving him that tiny, toothy smile that Stiles’ liked so much, and he was powerless not to smile back, feeling lightheaded with relief.

“I care about you,” Derek said under his breath, dropping the damp cloth to the floor. “I want you.”

This time, when Derek’s lips touched his, it was exactly how he had always dreamed. It was light, gentle, tentative, like neither of them could believe it was happening, like too strong a breath could shatter the moment. Stiles sighed, pushing into the soft give of Derek’s lips, one hand coming up to cup his cheek, thumb scraping over the short hairs there. Derek breathed against his lips, kissing him again, gentle and careful. When they parted, the soft look in his eyes made Stiles’ cheeks pull into a goofy grin. A laugh bubbled out of him, as gentle and joyous as the kiss that preceded it, and Derek laughed too, pulling the other man into his arms, hugging him tightly.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Stiles said again, grinning against his partner’s throat.

“It’s me,” he assured him, brushing the words lovingly with a fleeting kiss to the bruise where his neck met his shoulder. He pressed feather-light kisses to every mark on his skin, hands gentling where they held him, no longer crushing him to his chest, just holding him close.

“Stay with me?” Stiles asked, not admitting that he wanted to see Derek in the morning, to be fully certain that this wasn’t a dream.

Derek sighed gustily against his shoulder before pulling away.

“Change the sheets first,” he said, already pulling at the comforter on the bed.

“What?” Stiles squawked, cheeks coloring. “They don’t smell!” So what if it had been a couple weeks since he’d changed them?

“It’s the spray,” Derek said, rolling his eyes, pulling the sheet right out form under Stiles, encouraging him to stand or fall. “I’m not sleeping with pillows that have mace all over them.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, grabbing the pillows and following Derek to the laundry. “It’s pretty good stuff, though, right?”

Derek grunted, clearly not ready to praise Stiles’ skills at making demon/werewolf pepper spray so recently after feeling it himself.

After redressing the bed and grabbing new pillows from the linen closet, Stiles climbed back into bed, watching with a lingering feeling of disbelief as Derek slowly struggled out of his obscenely tight jeans, dropping his boots and socks. He slipped under the proffered sheet, shifting as close to Stiles as their knees allowed.

His lips were right there, and Stiles couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss him again. It was just as chaste and careful as the first, a goodnight kiss, and as with all things Stiles, Derek understood it completely.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered, kissing the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Stiles woke to the sound of a throat being pointed cleared in his doorway.

Flopping over, he squinted through blurry eyes to see his father, arms crossed, leaning against his doorframe.

“Mind telling me why Derek Hale is cooking breakfast in my kitchen, wearing my son’s clothes?” he asked, eyebrow quirked obnoxiously and Stiles couldn’t help but think that that’s where he got his saucy attitude from.

“Oh,” he said, stretching. “We’re in love.” Both Stilinski men heard a crash from the kitchen as something heavy was dropped. Stiles grinned at his dad. “He hasn’t said it, but he talked around it enough that I know.” His dad smiled, a soft, proud smile that Stiles wished he saw more often.

“You know you’re not allowed to have pets, Stiles,” he said with a grin. “If he starts leaving hair everywhere and chewing on the furniture, it’s your responsibility.”

“Oh my God,” they heard Derek exclaim downstairs.

“So you’re saying I can keep him?” Stiles’ smile pulled at the scabs on his lips.

“I guess, but only if you tell me what happened to your neck and arms? And if you tell me it was Hale, he’ll be bleeding into his breakfast,” his dad threatened, eyeing his scrapes with concern.

“I had a run in with a demon last night,” Stiles said, getting out of bed gingerly, the stitches in his hips tingling. “Didn’t go very well for me.”

“Did you guys at least catch the thing?” his father asked, catching his son’s jaw in his hand as he came closer, turning his neck to get a look at the bites and bruises on the long curve of his neck. His eyebrows pulled up in concern and worry, his other hand gently closing around his wrist to get a look at his scratched forearm. “Jesus, son.”

“No, we didn’t, and it’s not as bad as it looks,” Stiles said, trying to look reassuring. “I already feel a lot better than I did.”

That didn’t seem like it helped ease his father’s worry at all, but he released him anyway.

“I’m going to take a shower, you go down and deal with your guard dog, and we’re going to talk about last night later.” He turned to walk down the hall to his room. Stiles stepped out after him.

“Hey, Dad,” he said and the Sheriff turned. “Thanks.”

His dad smiled, came back and ruffled his hand through his hair, dropping a kiss on his forehead before leaving him alone in the hallway.

When Stiles had brushed his teeth, he ambled his way down the stairs, gait slightly stilted to protect his stitches. He grinned at the sight he was met with. Derek was indeed wearing his clothes, basketball shorts stretched tightly over his ass, t-shirt tight around his biceps and chest, but Stiles was pleased to see his shoulders fit well. He had a mixing bowl in one hand, and was crouched on the ground, wiping up splatters of pancake batter from the floor with the other.

“I love pancakes,” Stiles said, as Derek straightened up, a sheepish look on his face as he tossed the batter-covered paper towels into the trash.

“I know you do,” he said, setting the mixing bowl down on the counter before stepping in close to the younger man. He seemed to hesitate, as if he didn’t know if he was welcome in the light of day, here in Stiles’ family home. But he was still here, had stayed all night, and had snuck down to start breakfast early. He hadn’t even made a run for it when the Sheriff had pulled in the drive.

Stiles dipped forward, dropping his head just the slightest bit as he pressed his lips softly to Derek’s, kissing him with mint and sweetness.

Derek kissed back, hands coming to cup his cheeks, as his lips parted. Stiles sighed into his mouth, humming as the wolf tongued gently at the cuts on his lips. Stiles snuck his teeth into the kiss, nipping at Derek’s bottom lip, tasting the swell of it. Derek huffed against him, hands falling to his waist, walking him backwards to the counter, pinning him to the countertop with his hips. He leaned gently against the younger man, pressed together from hip to lips.

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat and his eyes open as his partner leaned into him. It was nice, the kiss was sweet, just edging on sultry, but in the corners of Stiles’ vision the light started to go coldly fluorescent and the feeling of the warm wood counter behind him made him think of wet, slick linoleum tile. Derek’s bulk against him was too familiar, in unpleasant ways. This should feel new, their first morning together, but instead, Stiles felt like he was back in that bathroom, unable to fight back.

“Stop, stop,” he said, panic peaking his voice in volume, trying to pull back, stretching the skin around his stitches, hands coming up to grab Derek’s upper arms.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked, immediately tensing under his hands. Stiles slithered around him, turning the werewolf and pushing him back against the counter instead.

“Don’t back me into things,” he said, blushing lightly, feeling a little embarrassed at his reaction. He knew he was safe, but that didn’t make it easy to remember in certain situations. He addressed his Alpha’s collarbone. “And stay away from my neck. And don’t bite me. And I don’t think I want to have sex in a bathroom anytime soon.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like he was scolding his boyfriend for things they hadn’t even done yet. He felt fragile, his heart still beating too fast, adrenalin making his skin feel twitchy.

Stiles looked up to Derek’s face, worried about what he’d see in his expression. The wolf’s eyes were pinched in sadness and his mouth was thinned in anger, and Stiles couldn’t help flushing a deeper red.

“Sorry,” he said feebly, moving to take a step back.

“No, don’t,” Derek said, reaching out to touch the center of his palm, not holding on to him in anyway, just touching. Stiles stopped, and let Derek guide him with gentle touches into a loose hug. The human boy rested his forehead against his partner’s shoulder, letting the wolf’s hands slide soothingly along his back.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, the vibration in his chest soothing Stiles’ anxiety as he leaned against him. “I should’ve been more careful.”

“You didn’t know,” Stiles protested feebly, but the wolf interrupted again.

“I did. I know the demon came to you, looking like me, doing the things you thought I would do,” he reasoned. “You were right. I like holding you against me,” Stiles felt his fingertips dance down his ribcage. “I want to cover your neck in my marks,” Derek turned his face into Stiles’ hair, perhaps resisting the temptation to do just what he’d said. “I won’t ever want to bite you this hard, but I like feeling you in my mouth.” Stiles shuddered against him. “And it’s okay if you don’t want me to do any of that. All of that was used against you, the demon used my body as a weapon to hurt you.” Derek cupped Stiles’ chin and pulled him back to look in his eyes. “I want you to tell me what I can and can’t do. I want to make sure you can trust me again.”

“I do trust you,” Stiles insisted, turning his head in Derek’s hand to press a kiss to his palm. “It did all that stuff, like I thought you might, like I imagined so many times,” his cheeks dusted pink again, embarrassed for entirely different reasons this time. “But it didn’t kiss me right. It kissed me like _it_ wanted to kiss me, it wasn’t like how you kiss me at all.” Stiles leaned forward just to touch their lips together, eyes still open, just a brush of skin on skin. The wolf hummed against his lips.

“How do I kiss you?” Derek whispered, breathing gently over his skin.

“Like I’m something special,” Stiles said back just as softly, letting their lips brush with every word. “Like you love me.”

Derek kissed him again, exactly like before, careful and loving and so incredibly _him_ that Stiles could never mistake it for anyone else.

When they pulled apart, Derek kept Stiles in the circle of his arms, hand both soothing and restless against his back.

“I don’t like it when people lick my stomach,” he admitted. “I like being held down, but only with your hands, never ropes or plastic ties.” Stiles moaned quietly in the back of his throat at the thought. “And don’t ever call me sweetheart.”

“I think I can manage that,” Stiles said, squeezing his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. “We’re going to be okay.”

“We can wait as long as you need,” Derek said, brushing a self-conscious kiss to the side of Stiles’ head, pulling out of the embrace with blushing cheeks as he turned back toward breakfast.

“I don’t want to wait,” Stiles insisted, stepping in close behind him, draping himself over his back as he began pouring batter into the heated pan. “I’ve been waiting years for this,” he said lightly, nipping at the nape of his neck. “I want all of you.”

Derek let out a heavy breath that ended on a groan. He turned his head and Stiles caught his lips over his shoulder.

“You two better be making breakfast in there,” the Sheriff called as he shuffled down the stairs. The pair pulled apart, sheepishly taking steps away from each other. The Sheriff came into the kitchen, saw the two of them and rolled his eyes.

“Stiles, your lip is bleeding,” he said, sitting down at the table and unfolding his paper. “And, Derek, son, you’ve got blood on your face.”

 

They didn’t wait.

They had barely stumbled into the door of the loft before Stiles was wrapped around his boyfriend.

 _His boyfriend._ He could barely get over it, kept saying it in his mind over and over. They’d met up with the pack, briefly, at the McCall house, before it was agreed that Stiles should take a couple days to rest and that Derek had better look after him in case the creature came back. They didn’t tell the pack, officially, of their shift in status, but twitchy werewolf noses told Stiles’ that they reeked of each other, like they knew Derek has spent the night pressed up against him.

And pressed up against him was where Stiles’ wanted him now.

As soon as Derek slid the loft door closed, Stiles rounded on him, pressing him back against it and assaulting his neck with teeth and tongue. The human’s hands slid underneath his shirt, pushing it up, scraping bitten fingernails down the ripples and ridges of his abs.

“God, I want to blow you so bad,” Stiles growled around a mouthful of flesh, one hand already pulling apart the fastenings of his partner’s pants. “I want you to fuck my face, come in my mouth.” Stiles cursed in frustration as he felt copper and iron burst over his tongue. “But my lips are all messed up. And with stitches in my hips, I don’t think we can fuck either. And, shit, I want to fuck you so bad.” One of Stiles’ hands wrapped around to grab a thick handful of his ass, squeezing and grinding.

Derek, who had thus far just moaned and moved where Stiles placed him, finally reached up and grabbed the human by the arms, holding him still as Derek licked and nipped at his lips. He lapped up the blood there, and Stiles probably should’ve found it strange, but it was so incredibly wolf-like, it actually got him a little hotter.

“Fuck, baby, everything you do is like porn,” he said, kissing Derek fiercely as he finally worked a hand into his obscenely tight jeans. The wolf moaned, open-mouthed, eyes closed, unabashed as Stiles stroked him base to tip. “Perfect,” Stiles breathed against his ear, his lips already tingling, feeling hot and swollen.

Then Derek’s palm fitted over the hard curve of his erection, gripping through the denim. Stiles jerked back, scraping his wrist on the teeth of the wolf’s fly.

“Don’t do that,” he said, still breathless. He wrapped long fingers around his hand and tugged him further into the loft. “Let’s get naked, start from there.” He started up the stairs to the bedroom, itching to shake off the cover of clothes, to be skin to skin and vulnerable. Derek crowded in close, pressed along the length of his back as they climbed the stairs. It would’ve been hazardous if not for the stabilizing hand wrapped tightly around the younger man’s body.

“We can do all of that when you’re better,” Derek said, voice gauzy and damp on Stiles skin as he pulled the flannel off his shoulders. “Right now, I want to suck you until you’re shaking, I want you to shoot on my face,” Stiles stumbled as they approached the bed, moaning, thinking about pearly ropes of come clinging to the dark hairs of his beard. “And then I want to jerk off over you and rub my come into your skin so you smell like me.” Derek urged him onto the bed, pulling the younger boy out of his shirt as he landed. When his face appeared from the other side of cotton, Derek kissed it; cheek, corner of his mouth, his cracked lips. “I always want you to smell like me.” He said against him. “Forever.”

Stiles grinned, silly and wide, pulling Derek’s clothes off.

“Knew you loved me,” he said, heart pounding happily as he squirmed out of his jeans, letting his shoes and socks fall to the floor beside the bed. Derek just grinned, pressing a kiss to his chin, then his collarbone, and then sinking down over his cock.

Stiles tipped his head up, a groan crawling up his throat as Derek shouldered his legs apart, hands big under his thighs, cupping the cool flesh. He hummed as Stiles’ thick cock filled his mouth, his tongue sliding back and forth across his shaft. His head bobbed and Stiles’ breath caught.

“Goddamn, Der,” he gasped, stroking a loose hand through his hair, combing it back from his forehead. “Fuck, bae, so good.”

“Don’t ever call me “ _bae_ ” in bed again,” Derek said, pulling off and stroking him in a tight grip.

“I’m gonna do it all the time now,” he said, head tipping sideways to grin down at his boyfriend, winking smartly.

“Fucker,” Derek muttered, but swallowed his cock again, so he couldn’t have been too upset.

Stiles nudged his hips up into his mouth, fucking a little deeper, stuttering to a stop when his wounds sparked in discomfort.

“Careful,” he whispered against the head of his dick, lips sliding wetly through the oozing precome. “Just relax. I got you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, his toes beginning to curl. “Yeah, you got me.”

Derek went down, sucking him off like it was his job, head bobbing in a smooth rhythm, tongue swirling expertly over the head of his weeping dick, the salty taste of precome bursting over his tastebuds. It only took a handful of minutes of Derek’s growling hums and slurping sounds before Stiles was gripping tightly at the back of his neck and whimpering.

“Close?” Derek asked unnecessarily, feeling the younger man’s thighs quiver under one palm, the other wrapping around his spit-slick cock, stroking him off. Stiles’ hands slid around to grip the hair at the side of his head, looking at him with blown black eyes, heavy lidded and glazed.

“Did you mean it?” he asked breathlessly, his stomach contracting in hiccupy bursts as his orgasm neared. “Lemme come on your face.”

“Yeah,” Derek sighed, closing his eyes as Stiles’ balls drew up.

“ _Fuck, Derek,”_ he moaned, eyes fighting to stay open as he shot come across his partner’s cheek, draping over high cheek bones, clinging to his dark scruff and glistening on his red, swollen lips. Derek opened his eyes and Stiles’ dick gave a final, cramping pulse at seeing his eyes glowing with Alpha red. “Perfect,” he breathed, wrung out, empty, cleaned out.

Derek made a sound that Stiles seriously wanted to call purring but wouldn’t dare, not when his dick was still so close to Derek’s claws. What Derek was doing to the skin of his stomach could only have been called nuzzling though, rubbing come and scruff into his skin, lapping it up as he slid up his body, straddling his hips. Stiles’ hands settled on Derek’s thighs, feeling the crunch and slide of dark hairs against his palms, catching in his calluses.

The wolf’s cock was red and dewy at the head, pulsing lightly with each beat of his heart, looking achingly hard. He watched in slack jawed amazement as Derek gripped it in one hand, stroking himself as the other braced himself by Stiles’ head. Derek stared down at him with intensity in his red eyes, and Stiles’ matched it, eyes locked unwaveringly as he snuck his tongue out to flick over a line of come bisecting Derek’s bottom lip. Derek’s groaned, eyes squeezing shut as he caught Stiles’ mouth in a fierce kiss. Stiles’ hand joined his on his striping his cock and in only a couple more seconds and he was coming, hot splashes on his skin and across his knuckles.

“Yes,” Derek hissed through his teeth, weight dropping to his elbow, body sagging with relief and pleasure. Stiles hummed under him, pressing kisses into his hair, one hand continuing to stroke him through, the other already smearing the come into his skin. Derek panted in his ear, watching as Stiles’ long fingered hand drew patterns in his come, sliding it across the hard ridges of his stomach. “Yes, God, yes,” he groaned, the shiny lines on his skin reflecting red as Derek watched with glowing eyes.

Stiles hummed, pulling his mouth down to him, licking at the come on his chin and kissing it into his mouth, the two of them growing lazy and sticky as their heart rates slowed.

“Are you okay?” the wolf grumbled, his hand massaging his partner’s stomach and chest. “We should’ve waited,” he said gruffly.

“No, that was perfect,” Stiles sighed, touching their foreheads together, pressing a kiss to Derek’s nose when he didn’t turn his face up to meet his lips.

“You were attacked yesterday, I should’ve given you more time,” Derek huffed, sinking onto his side next to Stiles, stretched out along his side, head pillowed on his chest.

“I’m pretty sure it was me who jumped you,” Stiles said with amusement, wrapping a comey hand around the back of his neck and squeezing comfortingly.

“Did you ever get scared? Have a flashback?” Derek asked, turning his head to look at Stiles, resting his chin on his chest, pressing a quick kiss to his nipple on the way.

“Did that used to happen to you?” he asked gently, and his heart broke a little when Derek nodded silently. He pulled his chin up, kissing him softly until his abs hurt from holding him up. He flopped back, keeping his hand on his partner’s face. “I never forgot who I was with.” He scooted down the bed so they were eye to eye, lying on their sides, a breaths distance away. “I like it went your eyes go all Alpha. Makes me feel safe.”

Derek flashed his eyes with a gentle smile on his swollen lips. Stiles grinned back, leaning in and kissing himself breathless again.

**Author's Note:**

> A succubus appearing as Derek has nonpenetrative sex with Stiles in a bathroom. Though Stiles does not know it is the succubus or why he's feeling out of control of his own body, he does feel as though we wants to stop but is unable to say so. He is bitten and cut by the demon. Later they learn he is infected with a venom that causes intense guilt, shame and self-loathing.


End file.
